The Best of Sherlock Holmes
by Vraindall
Summary: Tales from the journals of Dr. John H. Watson, of his beloved companion and friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes.


**The Best of Sherlock Holmes **

_Murder in Harcour Manor: __I_

Disclaimer: Any characters that can be found in the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle are, obviously, not mine.

Note: Story will switch from third person to first person in the form of Dr. John H. Watson mostly, and occasionally, that of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

There was a sense of gloom in which one would not have been able to escape from even within one's warm home, in contrast of the neverceasing rain which poured on unceasingly outside. Therefore it was a surprise for the both of us when a sharp tapping broke into the silence that was 221B Baker Street on that lonely evening.

"Who the devil could that be?" I said in a very much exasperated voice. I threw my evening paper aside, however, and stood up good naturedly to welcome whomever it was that-no doubt-had a greatly important issue at hand to come all the way through the rain to meet my companion, the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

"A made wealthy woman whom had just recently wed a very rich man, has come all this way and left her family in order to present to us no doubt a case worth our time looking into, Watson, so i beg of you to act in a gentlemanly manner. Meaning, please wipe the residue of cake on your cheek." Said he. I still spluttered at his foresight, though having experienced it many many times before.

"Well, I'm sure you have an explanation, but-" At that moment, however, the lady was shown in by Ms. Hudson, who looked a bit scornfully at her drenched form. I remembered what my companion had suggested, and quickly wipped the corners of my mouth.

"I apologize for disrupting in such an untimely manner, but you see, my circumstances could not wait another second. I had been advised to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes by the gentlemen of Scotland Yard as they cannot make anything else of the matter in which I am very sure they are mistaken with regarding to their results. I beg of you to help me in my time of desperation, Mr. Holmes, and you will not find me ungrateful." The woman cried without taking a breath, looking from myself to Holmes, and finally deciding on Holmes to direct her predicament. I could not apprehend how he did it, but Holmes was right in saying that the woman standing in front of us, though dripping wet from rushing through the rain without an umbrella, was indeed a rich woman, in account of the-if not overly-extravagant wear she sported. Holmes looked at her in his most characteristic searching way, before beckoning her to the armchair closest to the fire.

"Pray sit down, yes close to the fire now, good. Now give me all the details, and whether they are substantial or not; I will act as judge to that." He spoke sharply, but not unkindly at the end, and I knew what he was refering to. More than once before precious time had been wasted on inutile information which would have been easily gained had our client revealed all he had to know."And do not mind the presence of my dear friend Dr. Watson, whom is, I believe as much in your service as I." I nodded from my seat to the lady to confirm that fact as my friend leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes with a wave of his hand, motioning for our guest to begin.

"I was given the name of Diana Georgia Wimble after my mother, but since my marriage to Sir Edmund J. Harcour three months ago, on the second of January, I have come to be known as The Fourth Lady Diana as Edmund is the fourth son whose veins flow the royal blood of the Harcours." She said with conviction. "The Manor itself is without saying a splendor for sight, and nothing unusual is to be made of it. Now, the residents of the Harcour Manor are as follows; and I do confess it took me a while to get them all memorized, especially because two of the brothers by law of mine are twins. There is the first son Sir Harold Harcour, and his mistress Lady Rochelle whom is a quiet woman, beautiful in her own respect, but much too quiet for my company. Like I said before, two of the brothers are twins, and it so happens that the second son Sir Henry Harcour is also the identical twin of Sir Harold whose birth of only I believe one minutes difference stations him as the second of the four brothers. Now-"

"Just one question; you have done a wonderful job in the details thus far. Pertaining to the twins, do they have any physical differences as to isolate one from the other?" Sherlock Holmes interrupted, offering one of his distinctivly charming smiles(quite debonair, but which I find along with initial interest, often escapes his memory to provide once the case is over) to the Lady.

She paused thoughtfully, before a spark of remembrance lit up her eyes. "Physically, exterior wise, no, I could never tell them apart and if not for the special ties that bond together blood relation, I doubt any other family member of theirs could either. But having said that, I have noticed a drastic difference in their personalities. Sir Henry is very religious and charitable, and always very kind to children. Sir Harold also portrays admirable qualities, that goes without saying," She quickly said. "But it's the prior fact that I am able to tell one from another. You see, Sir Henry always wears a wooden cross around his neck."

I could tell that Holmes was fascinated by the characters which the Lady Diana had so vividly recited by the sudden energy in which lighted his usually cold steel grey eyes. "Thank you, that was most invaluable. You may proceed."

"The wife of Sir Henry is known as The Second Lady Bella whom is my dearest friend of all. She came from a not painfully well off family, therefore I related myself to her instantly. She is a bright contrast to the serenity of Lady Rochelle, and much like a child.'

'The third son Sir Riley's story is, if I may say so, a tragic one. At birth he was found to have paralysis, and since then has not lived a single day as an ordinary man, without the ability of proper speech nor full movement of limb. Since he annot defecate alone, much less other activities, he spends his days on his bed, with his dutiful wife always by his side. She is called The Third Lady Eliza, and is very loyal to her husband.'

'Lastly, I come to my own beloved Edmund, and to the reason as to why I am here on such a day like this one. My husband was murdered two nights ago in our own bedroom." I admit I felt admiration for the woman sitting across from us at that moment to possess such bravery. My companion apparently felt the same as I, for he adressed her with these next words in which I knew could only come from his regardation of her fortitude and not from mere pity as he is not capable of such emotion.

"I applaude your valor, and I am sure your late husband would have done the same." He said quietly. "I ask of you because of your strength, to reveal to me the rest of your experiences." She nodded.

"That night we were supposed to go see the premier of an opera, but Edmund said that he was feeling a bit of nausea after dinner. I was disappointed, as I had been looking foreward to it for many weeks before. I believe Edmund saw the disappointment on my face, because when I said I would stay with him while he rested, he firmly told me otherwise, and only stated how guilty he felt to not be with me. Mr. Holmes, I regret the moment I stepped out the door, for if I had know that was the last time I would see him-but I'm afraid I am switching onto a more irrelevant course of direction.'

'Like I said before, my husband's body was found lying in bed by one of the maids whom had only entered after several rounds of knocking, with his eyes closed, and his death was caused by the stab of a dull edged blade through his heart. The murder weapon was found in his right hand, and the police announced for certain that it was the murder weapon. They say it was suicide, that nothing in his diet caused any concern for anyone else, and that his nausea was just an excuse so I would not be there when it happened, oh but, Mr. Holmes! I know for certain that they are wrong! It was murder, and I know they are just saying that to compensate their efforts which were not good enough!" Lady Diana stood up in her passion, and her speech was so convincing that even I found myself agreeing wholeheartedly to the proclaimed uselessness of the Scotland Yard bunch.

"Ah, but Mrs. Harcour, can you be sure? The police force may be judgemental at times, but they are not brainless. Correct me if I'm wrong, but they did check the alibis of those present before announcing their claim?" My friend said smoothly. Still under the influence of the lady's passionate and bold nature, I felt somewhat defiant towards his swift reasoning. But I was not to be disappointed, for as soon as Holmes stated the question, her eyes flashed cunningly, and she replied with just as much confidence as before.

"I am sure, because, Mr. Holmes, the murderer had slipped, even if only in my eyes. My husband died with the dagger in his right hand. Now you tell me how that could be so when I know fully well that my husband is left handed!"

A wave of what can only be called as euphoria washed over me, as I looked to Holmes with some triumph, though it had nothing to do with my accomplishments. I watched with amusement as he jumped up in delight, as though nothing could have made him happier. Tracing back and forth, it was as if his whole demeanor had changed. Now a new man stood pouncing and muttering to himself from one corner of the room to another, looking more like the bloodhound which I often closely associate with him than ever.

After a few minutes he finally came to a halt, though nothing of the fervent transformation changed. "Have you told anyone else about this?" He whispered breathlessly. The lady shook her head. "They were so sure it was suicide, I could not have gotten a word in otherwise. I admit I felt somewhat offended at this, and therefore when one of them suggested I come to you if I were still hesitant, I came right away."

"EXCELLENT!! I could not have hoped for better! My lady, you are by no doubt one of the most singulairily extraordinary and brilliant women I have ever had the chance of acquainting. I believe it will not be too soon if we were to arrive at your doorstep at nine tomorrow morning?" Sherlock Holmes cried with excitement emitting from his whole being. Lady Diana flushed at the praise in which the infamous detective had expressed, and shook her head eagerly.

"Not at all, Mr. Holmes! My address-here. Thank you for listening to what I had to say; that alone was worth the world! And thank you too, Doctor, I'll be expecting you two tomorrow morning. Goodbye." She scribbled something on a piece of parchment which my friend had handed to her, and disappeared into the night which had ceased raining during our session.

As I closed the door behind her, I heard Holmes' keen footsteps still rapidly pouncing to and fro, and I could not blame him for I too had so hopelessly declaired the day a wasted one-neither of us had left the flat the whole time due to poor weather, and Holmes hadn't I believe, walked more than two dozen steps.

"Well?" I asked with a note of bemusement as I watched him. "What do you think of it?" He paused, foot still in the air, and turned to stare at me.

"What do you mean 'Well' Watson?" He said, eyes gleaming. "And anyhow, haven't I reminded you far enough times to cease speculation without sufficient data?" I rolled my eyes irritably when he turned away.

"Ah, yes. By the way, Holmes, I wanted to ask you-"

"How it is that I deduced the woman's status before setting eyes on her?" He finished with a lavish fall onto his favorite armchair. I tried to protest at his cutting me off, but decided not to. There was a chance he'd "forget" the answer to what I was curious to know.

"You know how I perform, Watson. Having a watchful eye-" Here he motioned as an example, "is not everything. I heard her footsteps and from sound alone I saw everything. I was told approximately her height and her age by the length of her stride. She was wearing, as you saw, very high boots. Those were not ordinary boots, and are, I believe made from a type of animal skin. From that I gather she is a rich woman, for I don't believe there is another soul walking the streets of London sporting such extravagant and utterly useless shoewear. But she had not been wealthy for long, for I heard her slip on the stairs up more than once, and it took her quite a while to come up. Which leaves us three possibilities. One, she received them as a gift, and therefore is not used to walking in them. Think, Watson. Why would a woman wear such costly a gift on a day that almost guarantees its' wreakage? Or two, she could have possibly stolen them. It bears a similarity to the first idea, and is crossed out. We now arrive at the only plausible conclusion-the boots are her own, and yet they hadn't been in her possession for long as she is not used to them. She had just married a well-to-do man and-"

"Aha! Hold it, Holmes. Even you cannot guarantee that it had been marriage that brought forth gold, and not a self-hard work." I said with a grin. I was disappointed to find him not even a little shaken by my point.

"Come, Watson. This woman, whom I gather we have reached a conclusion had not been wealthy not long ago, could not possibly have obtained her fortune from herself or her family."

"And why not?"

He looked a little irascibly at me, and continued a bit coldly, "Have you not been listening to anything I have said? Would, I ask you, a hardworking woman whom had endured much hardship for success go out and buy so idle a piece? Of course not. One who has gone through what it feels like to be at lack does not waste. But when your husband or his family goes through the trouble to do so, especially in the early stages of marriage, you do not look at the expense, but feel grateful, and accept."

There was no fault in his deduction, and I was, I admit, once again baffled. It is in moments like these that I am most aware that there sat, in my presence of one of the most greatest minds of mankind.

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End file.
